I'm feeling an expansion
That isn't physical
Nor inside of my head
I know, I've checked
And, though easily tired
I have scoured my depths
For what?
A notion of things past
Experiences not realized
Nor will be
Misogynist, hater of existence
All but mine
A gift to myself
Fruition to be
Or not yet seen
Both awake and in slumber
I writhe, lain flat in covers
Real and fictional alike
There's nowhere to direct a longing
If ever I would create one